


I Tailed Her My Flipper And Took Her In Tow

by gonfalonier



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Calisthenics, Camaraderie, Coming In Pants, Just guys being pals, M/M, Public Humiliation, first person pov but not from anyone in particular, guys extremely not being pals, oh and:, the three c's:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:15:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27129104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonfalonier/pseuds/gonfalonier
Summary: Just a bit of friendly competition, recalled from memory by what was surely a question innocent enough.
Relationships: Thomas Blanky/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Comments: 12
Kudos: 33





	I Tailed Her My Flipper And Took Her In Tow

**Author's Note:**

> a fill for the terror kink meme prompt from [this surely lovely anon](https://terrorkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/396.html?thread=303756#cmt303756): Blanky/Tozer Guys being Dudes
> 
> i hope it fits the brief, bud.

Well, it weren’t too hard to get the lads fired up when there’s nowt else to do. Three days time, said Lieutenant Hodgson (he of the soft hands and cheerful voice; born a lieutenant from his mother’s launch), we were to pull aground at Beechey Island to overwinter, and wouldn’t that be a thrill. The lads were right choleric, ready to feel land under boot, ready to get some distance from each other. We were all gripes and bristles, and we shouldered past each other on the way to watch; even hands of cards, there was danger of a tussle breaking out.

The officers stayed clear of us boys as well as they could. Captain strolled about on decks, slapping backs, lending a hand, but his lieutenants, none of them showed an interest in fraternizing with the beasts of lower order. Little -- now there’s an apt name for a man no taller than a bushel barrel -- could sometimes be caught galumphing through knots of men on his way to some errand or other. Nothing more than Crozier’s fetch-boy, was he, a dog with a stick, and rumors sure abounded of the things which Crozier might demand he catch in his mouth. That other one, that sanctimonious cutworm, Irving, he was nowhere to be found unless there was a punishment in the offing. It’s just as well he largely left us alone. There’s dullards enough among the ABs and Marines on every ship without full wardroom officers piling on flavors of their own.

Couple exceptions, of course, because there always are. The Captain, as stated, he could be a slap, when he weren’t so deep in his cups to become mean or mawkish or too free with his hands. Dr. McDonald, too, for he had a fine voice to sing with and taught the younger lads a few dance steps to show off to their girls once they were home again. None more so, however, none more of a divertment, a whole circus to himself, than Ice Master Blanky. When he’d come to mix with the hoi polloi, steal some man’s ration of grog, the lads knew they were in for fine entertainment. 

There was one night, if memory serves, on the floor of the common area, when he was treating us masses to feats of strength. Oh, he lifted Evans over his head as though the boy were no more than a sack of oats, and after that he allowed young Mr. Hickey to stand on his chest, and he took four full breaths in that lifted the little vermin nearly a head higher, high enough that he could look eye-to-eye at that beanpole Billy Gibson.

We were hooting for more; never enough. A few of the blackguards in the crew, they bayed out for a boxing round, they wanted to smell some fresh blood, but down were shouted for it, and rightly so. We’re all gentlemen of the Royal Navy, Mr. Blanky scolded them, though his eyes were glittering with his special brand of tyke mischief.

So the big lobscouse Marine lad -- too young to be a Sergeant, says some, but the Marines, they’ll recruit anything with an heart and two legs -- he comes swaggering up, and he says to Auld Tom: Well, I ain’t a Navy man, sir. He added the sir on as though it would come off respectful, the jester. He said, I ain’t a Navy man, sir, I ain’t a ship’s cat.

Now, we’d quietened down, then. Leaning forward, like, the way you lil’uns are right now. A fight on a ship nearly always leads to a lashing — I should know, and all — and we were keen to see one of each, so we all stared on like a flock of owls and crows while these two bulls sized up for a scrap. Master Blanky was in his shirtsleeves and with his braces down and slung about his knees, but Sergeant Tozer was in his full uniform still, for he loved nothing more than to let us Navy men know that he weren’t one of us, nor would we ever be one of him. Now, Old Tom, he was broad across the chest and shoulders, stout of leg -- and this was before he’d lost one to that bear was hunting us -- but the Sergeant was half a bear of himself, and I myself had found excuse to glance his way at the basin and found myself impressed with the latitude of his arms. A tight grip the Marine had, too, and I for one was nigh on panting for a display of it in a set-to between them. No way of knowing which of them would come out victorious.

We never learn it, either. The two exchanged words I couldn’t hear from where I was standing, and then they each of them dropped to the ground on their fronts, and I had to crane my blasted neck to see what was next. So there they were, side-a-side, their hands out like so, and God bloody strike me if they didn’t begin to push themselves up and let themselves back down. An exercise, you see, a show of strength that you can press up your own weight only with your arms. It was a contest, you see, and we began counting for them as they bobbed down and up, each of ‘em straining and grunting, sounded like a fucking house of Sodom.

Come the time we reached the twenty marker, Master Blanky were starting to puff, to slow down a bit, like. I’ve tried, since, doing the motion myself, and I couldn’t make it to a second one, so how the old man made it to a full ten-and-ten I’ll never know. Young Tommy Hartnell knelt down by him and started talking encouragements, since we wanted a win for the Navy men, you know, we didn’t want the aul’ bootnecks thinking they could scrape by on brute gorilla force, did we?

Now, the Hartnell lad, he was well pretty. Golden hair, he had, and a red complexion, made him always look abashed, like to a young’n at his first whorehouse. He’d go on to lose his -- tha’s right, his own brother, nor a month later on the cruel shores of Beechey, but we didn’t know it at the time, so we were content to cheer him on as he honeyed up the ear of that notch-eared old tomcat Blanky. Oh, we all knew about ‘im, how he’d sniff about the men ‘til one of them sniffed back. I considered it myself more than once, but I’d learned better back in my whaling days: You get caught, well. No guarantee you’ll make it home, even if your skipper’s the sort to turn his eyes away, as Crozier was. So I played coy with Tom myself, but Hartnell knew how to appeal to his instincts. Master Blanky found his second breath by the thirtieth push, and then it was the Sergeant’s turn to falter, perhaps because he was still in full uniform, that foolish lobster coat and all. None of his men came to his side, ha! They all stuck to the wall, grumbling at him to pick it up, though when I looked over I could see that flame-up in the eyes of a few of them. Could be they wanted to come play the maid to their leader, but they’d learned better, too.

Count it up to the encouragement or what you will, but at thirty-seven presses it was the Marine what fell over and croaked for mercy. We all cheered, of course, because we were a petty-minded lot then. These days, after all that came after, I take no pleasure in the misfortunes of any man. We swarmed to Blanky like rats to an open barrel, and he gave our little Tommy a kiss to, right here, to the cheek for his trouble.

Auld Tom and Sergeant Tozer, they stepped together to shake hands, then, right, as it had been a fair contest and they’d both performed well, but young Tozer was still looking sore about it. When Blanky held his hand out to shake and part as friends, well, Tozer clutched at it and dragged him with his teeth all bared. (Savage fellow, he could be, as can any Marine -- you watch sometime, how they gnarr at each other over scraps of supper.) He says something to Tom that I couldn’t hear, but it must’ve been summat nasty, right foul, for the next thing Old Blanky does is push him backward, push and run him backward, and we all get out of the way so as we don’t catch any errant hands. And I mean to say, Tom had that Sergeant pushed up all the way against the wall of the common room, hard enough I expected a red stain to the wood from that damned coat of his. Crowded the man in til there wasn’t a breath of space between them.

We were all a-froth again, cheering on whatever man we were supporting. Some of the others, they’d taken to supporting Sergeant Tozer in order to make it fair, like. Anyrate, whatever it was Tozer said, whatever it was, it must’ve been well personal, private, you know, to do with Tom Blanky’s manhood -- Right, you’re getting the picture, there. I say it because that’s right where the old man went himself, simply seized the Sergeant by his very stones and held them there in his palm. Didn’t tug on ‘em or more, just held them there so there was no escaping it. Big smile on him, too, but the same sort of smile a man gets when he’s landing the killing spear on a whale. Could be that’s just how Blanky saw him, an animal to be shot down with his arrows, and were that the case then Tozer played the part, gawping down at him all like a fallow deer struck square through its gut.

Auld Tom, none of us could hear what he was saying to him -- and I asked the others after, once the action was over and we all scampered off, none of them heard -- but his mouth kept moving right there by the Sergeant’s ear, low as cat’s purr, so soft you’d think he’s talking words of love, but ah that smile stayed vicious. We we kept waiting for them to fight! We were all shouting, _Go on, Tom, go on with him_ , and all he’d do was keep the fellow shoved up against the wall with his hand just there, he never drew back to go for a swing.

Now, when you lads’ve been out there in the gale, and you’ve been working a beast over, or you’ve been out climbing, you’ve been up and down the rigging, your blood gets up, you might find yourselves a bit -- Yes, you understand, you’re hearing me. That’s how young Tozer found himself after all that exertion, and Tom, he was taking proper advantage of it, and much there was to take advantage of. And the Sergeant tried to stay stock -- something to do with his pride, perhaps; didn’t want to be seen by his boys running from a challenge. Didn’t want to get lashed for striking a Naval Officer, more like. But he tried to keep himself commonsensical, and his face would screw up, his mouth would crumple down like the pit of a peach to stop the sound from coming out. Bunch of folly, you ask me. No sense at all in pretending you don’t like getting your cock rubbed, even if it is by a man you wouldn’t tip your cap to.

Well, you see where this is ending up. Atwixt the old man’s hand and whatever it is he’s saying into his ear, the Sergeant reaches his crisis, and we’re all just there to see it. Me, I quietened down, for I could see there was a thing or two at play in the room that I didn’t understand. Summat in the air, you see, way your hair’ll stand on end when a lightning storm rolls off in the distance and you know it’s coming your way. Many of the others, ABs some but titled men, too, they fell hushed, and I knew then that we were of the same mind. We had seen something we weren’t meant to.

Sergeant’s face was a ruddy mess. Red as his jacket. Properly chastened, I’d say: I’ve seen prouder men after lashings. God’s wounds, I’ve seen prouder men at the gallows. Tozer looked like a little boy freshly birched by his old mother, but lads, I tell you this true, hand to my heart, when Tom Blanky stepped back and offered his hand for a shake -- the very hand that had brought about the shame! -- Sergeant Tozer grasped it, shook it proper, and bowed his head, deferential as you please. Then he scarpered off, of course. One of his lads -- the Corporal I think, but I couldn’t hardly tell them all apart -- goggled at him as he passed, and he cuffed the boy right on the head for it. They all followed him in a line, scuttling crabs. Boiled crabs, and all.

And, well. That was that, wasn’t it. Old Blanky strolled off without a word to none of us, just whistled a tune as though it’s all part of a game. All us lads took a blink -- like this, just -- like we all woke up from having the same dream, and then we wandered off to attend to some sort of duty. I imagine many of us, and I’m counting myself in this, attended only to ourselves. Powerful thing, to see a man broken in such a way. Me, I didn’t know who I envied more. I puzzle on it still.

Funny to think on it now. You lads have stirred my memory all up. There’s all sorts of transpirations and mysteries on that voyage. Expedition, I suppose you’d call it. Here on this whaler, you know what you’re against: the wind; the sea; the animal himself. I saw things on that expedition, well before we walked out on the ice, well before that thrice-fucked winter that took out many of our best men, Master Blanky included -- I saw things that I didn’t know and, lads, I’ll never know. Magic was afoot from the start of it, and that I’ll swear before god.

Now back to work with the lot of you. Sun’ll be out before we even know it.

**Author's Note:**

> the terror kink meme fuckin whips you should check it out and write some stuff for it


End file.
